Flattery Will Get You Somewhere
by Mistress V
Summary: Challenge response. Klink's in desperate need of some cheering up so Hogan decides to stage a show. He'll even sing. Only problem is...he can't carry a tune. Meanwhile, what's Klink up to?
1. Chapter 1

Challenge fic: Hogan can't sing, so how do they keep him from doing so? May have another challenge element, we'll see where the muse takes me. German words from the German dictionary and German towns from Germany.

Legalese: I don't own, I borrow, but what I create is mine. ©Mistress V 2009.

Flattery Will Get You…Somewhere

by Mistress V

Wilhelm Klink sat at his desk, whose surface was barely visible due to the stacks of paperwork arranged in tidily lopsided piles. He'd left strict instructions with the latest in a long progression of earnest but hapless young NCO/secretaries to be left alone. Outside, the last days of summer beckoned through the open window; he allowed himself a quick daydream. In the not too distant past, before the war had once again disrupted the way of life he enjoyed, it would be a time for strolling in the park, visiting a _**Biergarten**_, or listening to an outdoor_**Konzert**_. With the proper female company, ja, natürlich.

Suddenly angry with himself for such ridiculous musings, Klink turned his attention back to the two opened letters sitting on top of the stacks of work that was being ignored. He'd been re-reading them for days now and still was unable to act.

The first was from Fraulein Helga. Klink frowned. Had she been gone only three months? It seemed so much longer. Sad to admit, without her cheerful presence and playful candor, the prospect of spring rolling into summer had been colorless at best. She'd regretfully submitted her resignation in order to care for her ailing _**Oma **_up in the pretty seaside town of Laboe. Klink had granted her request a bit sadly, though was pleased she would be close enough to Kiel so that the _**Kriegsmarine**_ would afford protection, yet far enough removed so that the village might escape the worst of the Allied bombing runs.

Helga's odd notes had been bright and full of as much news as the censors allowed, much as any young woman might write to an older relative. It didn't matter, Klink fluffed himself up like a pouter pigeon any time one arrived. But gradually, they grew less frequent as her attention was…distracted.

Into the scenario had strolled a handsome _**Oberleutenant zur See**_, Ludwig Schnabel. A fine young man, no doubt, from what Klink had quickly learned through the military grapevine that grew all over Germany and beyond. He hailed not only from a long line of seagoing officers, but from the very village where Helga 's _**Oma **_resided. Klink imagined the couple, taking Sunday afternoon walks along the coast as safety permitted, even sharing a romantic picnic. He saw quite clearly the suitor presenting gifts of fine Polish ham, Dutch pickled herring and even Lübeck's finest marzipan…and Helga's delighted response. How could love not factor in?

Today's note was actually an official announcement of the pair's engagement. Helga sent along a formal portrait. Klink gazed at the two figures. His former secretary looked radiantly in love. Her fiancée's expression was proud, stern and enamored at the same time. But what drew Klink's attention was the full head of dark hair the young man sported. It contrasted nicely with the _**Tropen-und**_ _**Sommeranzug**_ he was wearing.

Old. Klink suddenly felt old. It was true, he was no longer a youth who could take over the world singlehandedly, but he was far from the corpulence of Albert Burkholter. He ran a hand over his bald pate. Hair, or lack of it, definitely factored into this ludicrous equation. Suddenly he felt that what he lacked in follicles made him less attractive to the female population, though he'd never had a problem in the past. It was just that he'd been so fond of Helga and look what she'd chosen? Try as he might, Klink could not ignore the obvious. If he was not careful, he'd find himself married off to Frau Linkmeyer, the quintessential _**altes Welb**_.

He forced his attention back to the present, more specifically, to the next letter. Permission had finally been granted for him to begin the search for a new secretary. The position would become available in September, just weeks away, so Klink knew the days ahead would be busy indeed. It would be nice to see female faces around the office, even if they were only candidates. But his thoughts soured as he imagined the _**Mädchen**_ being distracted by any one of the younger men stationed at the camp, not to mention that pesky Hogan, who always managed to find his way into any woman's arms.

Klink was determined. He had to be prepared for the search process, had to make himself as presentable as possible---for that way the right woman would want to work for him, no question. He made mental notes. No more pilfered chocolate bars from the Red Cross packages, Schultz could have those. He needed to do some physical exercise, tone up his muscles and bring color to his pallid features. But the hair. There was no way around that, unless he wore his hat all the time. That would surely draw more attention than exposing his shining dome. Neither prospect appealed.

An idea slowly dawned on Klink. Impossible, he thought dismissively. No self-respecting German officer would even consider such a thing. Or…might they? He shrugged and made his way to the bookshelf where, hidden amongst some old sheet music, was an ancient _**Katalog **_he'd picked up during a long ago excursion during his student days. Friedrich's von Hamburg.

Klink made doubly sure the shades were drawn and the door locked, then sat down and opened the yellowing pages.

___________________

"You're certain Helga got engaged?" LeBeau repeated.

"As sure as the letter we steamed open the other night," Hogan replied. "To a navy man, no less. Nice looking, though, and I'm sure he'll make a fine husband for her. Helga always did strike me as the traditional type."

"So what's 'at got to do with Klnk?" Newkirk asked.

"The second letter we steamed was one from headquarters in Berlin. He's finally able to get that new secretary, but from what I've been hearing around the yard, Klink's kind of put off by the news Helga sent. He's feeling…old. And you know what that means!"

"But he *is* old. Well, older," Carter said, quickly remembering his commanding officer wasn't precisely a teenager, either. "And older men are more distinguished looking. I mean, all those movie stars in Hollywood have young women dripping off their arms."

"Klink's no movie star," Kinch reminded the group. "So what's the problem, sir?"

"Well, as I see it, if Klink keeps moping around, his productivity will slip. That'll attract the attention of our very own personal Gestapo nightmare, and Hochstetter might send him off to the Russian front. Who knows what we'd get in then? It's always been a possibility, but this time I'm worried. Klink's just not himself. Of course, he might decide to look super efficient and attract the wrong kind of secretary. A real one. And what if she wasn't so amenable to our little operation? Or what if Klink found out somehow? Or…Hochstetter?"

"She might tell 'im!" LeBeau drew a hand across his throat. "Sacre chat!"

"Precisely. We need to distract Klink, get him in a good mood so he hires the right kind of help. Here's what I had in mind," Hogan continued. "We put on a variety show. Everyone can participate, prisoners, guards, staff. Call it the 'End of Summer Follies.' What do you think?"

"But sir, we've had plenty of them before," Carter interrupted. "Usually to distract Klink from…something else."

The others nodded in agreement. Too often, the ruse of a lighthearted vaudeville evening had been a cover-up for something far more dramatic.

"E'd never buy it, sir," Newkirk agreed.

"Yes he will, this time." Hogan brought a fist into his palm, thinking aloud as he did so. "Klink can perform, whether it's his violin or some dramatic reading. That'll lift his spirits. And to make it completely legit, not only will I be sitting next to him for the whole evening, I'll even sing."

"Sing?" LeBeau nearly choked."You can't Colonel, you 'ave to be the master of ceremonies."

"Naah." Hogan warmed to the idea. "Newkirk here can have the honors. No, l'll join the Glee Club for their number, plus I'll do a solo. How about 'September in the Rain'? It's one of my favorites."

No one said a word. The prospect was even more chilling than the latest moonlit raid they'd been on.

"Good, you're all in agreement. I'll go tell Klink the good news right now. Let's say two weeks from Saturday?" Hogan waved and took off towards Klink's office, whistling dreadfully off key as he did so.

Carter soon found himself at the center of a group of very angry men. "Hey, what's the matter, guys?" he protested weakly.

"Idiot! Dummkopf!" LeBeau mixed insults as he grabbed the man's jacket collar. "You know the Colonel can't sing! What 'ave you done? "

TBC.


	2. Chapter 2

Flattery Will Get You..Somewhere, Chapter 2

by Mistress V

_**Disclaimers as in Chapter 1. I am adding a few OC POW's here, in passing, for, ahem, flavor.**_

Operation Fitness began for Klink the next day, right after he gave approval to the show and accepted Hogan's invitation to do the performance of his own choosing. He was seen strolling briskly around the camp several times a day and, it was rumored, also went on horseback rides near town as well. His stride was a bit pained at first, but soon was replaced by the gait of a man fitter…and (somewhat)more youthful feeling than before. Schultz confirmed that Herr Kommandant was also attempting the same _**Kallisthenie **_practiced by the elite _**Kommandotrupps**_, with the key word being attempt.

Operation Laryngitis also went ahead, but with much less success. No one had the guts to tell Hogan to his face that he couldn't carry the proverbial note in a tin bucket so the show's preparations moved along. The Glee Club's number was one thing, his flat notes could be hidden, well, sort of, by the rest of the chorus. But the solo was another matter. Hogan practiced "September in the Rain" constantly, excruciatingly so, driving most of his barracks mates to the comparative quiet of Kinch's radio alcove on the pretext of running through their own acts.

"We've got to do something," LeBeau moaned as the second week of torture began. "Once we 'ave a proper rehearsal, the Colonel will be the laughing stock of the entire camp---including les Boche. That would be a disaster."

"Yeah, an' what if Berlin Betty gets hold o'that? It could be the most demoralizing news since…" Newkirk's voice trailed off as he imagined the prospects.

"How can he NOT hear how bad he is?" Baker asked for the group. "If he did, then there's no way he'd insist on singing. Face it, the man must be tone deaf."

"The only thing we can do is shut down his voice," Kinch suggested. "But that's tricky. We want him silent, not sick. How the heck can that be done?"

Wilson was consulted for advice. While he agreed that making the Colonel ill was a dangerous option, even in summer, he suggested a different tactic. Irritation.

The next day, a small hole accidentally appeared in the window of Hogan's quarters, made by a passing football. Although the days and nights were warm, pollen count was at an all time high and everyone crossed their fingers the Colonel might come down with the sneezes. But not even the added power of a nice bouquet of polleny flowers, handpicked by Wilson during a work detail, could bring even one sniffle to the colonel. So the weeds were tossed, the window damage repaired and the group congregated once more at the drawing board.

_________________________

"There must be another way o' making him hoarse," Newkirk commented the next day in the rec hall, where volunteers were making props for some of the numbers.

"Man, if we only had some of that posole they serve at our local diner," Cpl. Johnson, a native of Taos, New Mexico, sighed. "It's five alarms hot, not only blows off your head, you can't swallow for a week afterwards. But it's so good. I'd still rather be eating it back home, sore throat and all."

LeBeau paused from cutting out construction paper leaves. "That may be it! But we 'ave no, what do you call it, posole here. What makes it so 'ot?"

"Chili peppers," the ranch-hand-cum-bombardier replied. "Dark red, sun dried chili peppers, grown in everyone's kitchen garden."

"Ah, oui! The Spanish call this pimentón…is, how you say, hot paprika, no?" An idea was beginning to form.

"Too bad that Indian chap ain't still 'ere." Newkirk lowered his voice. The RAF navigator, Flt. Lt. Gupta, had been a recent 'unofficial' visitor. "He 'ad some spices in his emergency kit, said they worked on injuries. Curry, I remember, an' chilies too. 'Course I know some o'that Indian food can be pretty 'ot as well, there's a little spot near Mile End Road that serves the best Bangalory Fall you can imagine. We call it a ring burner, if you get me drift."

The group shared a laugh, then went back to their decorations.

Le Beau's mind was clearly on culinary matters, and not necessarily of the Cordon Bleu variety. "Is there nothing we can substitute?" he mused.

"Well, there's Tewkesbury-styled mustard," Cpl. Langdon suggested. "Quite hot, but rather spiffingly tasty on roast meats."

"What's in that?" Carter asked.

"Mustard an' 'orseradish," Newkirk replied. "We eat it too, at me Mum's wi' Sunday lunch."

"SHHHH!" Wilson nodded towards Schultz, who was making a leisurely way over.

"Ahh, so nice," the sergeant said as he picked up several of the brightly colored paper leaves. "What are you going to do with these? A pity it is still summer, you know. In a few weeks, you would have the real thing."

"That's the luck o' the draw," Newkirk said. "But th'Colonel insisted on nice set decorations for every number, so we're doin' our best."

"Yeah, Langdon here's going to sing 'A Foggy Day in London Town', with real fog!" Carter added. "I'm making it."

"Nothing dangerous, I hope," Schultz admonished with the wag of a pudgy finger.

"Never. What's Klink planning to do?" Johnson tried to steer the conversation away from prisoner's offerings.

Schultz gave a luxurious shrug. "I do not know, he will not say. He approved the guard's barbershop quartet and the accordion group, but we know nothing, nothing about his own plans. So what are these lovely leaves for? "

LeBeau tried for honesty, hoping he could use the admission to get what he needed from the guard for a plan he'd thought of. "For Colonel 'ogan's solo. He is singing a tune, 'September in the Rain' and we will 'ave leaves and rain falling in the window behind 'im." The main backdrop was of a nondescript type pub/study/living room.

"You are as clever as the best film studio_** Technkier**_…" Schultz's words froze on his tongue. "Did you say Colonel Hogan would…sing?"

A look passed amongst the group, one that said not to mention the obvious. And it was obvious Schultz knew.

"Look, Schultzie," Newkirk continued. "Let's make a deal. We'll do our best t' keep Klink away from his ruddy violin if you 'elp us with our little, er, problem."

Schultz sat down heavily, shaking his head as if to clear an image from it. "This once, I agree. We must…combine our efforts. "

"All right." LeBeau began scribbling a shopping list. "Is that petite Hungarian food shop still doing business?" he asked.

"You mean the one run by Herr Nágy and his beautiful daughter, Ilona? Ahh, the _**Torten **_she makes…" Schultz's eyes misted over with gluttonous thoughts.

" 'Ere. Get these for me toute de suite and I promise you can 'ave some of the results, though not the special ones I plan to make for the Colonel."

"_**Paprika, heiß; Pfeffer, schwarz; Meerrettich, scharf; Senf**_." Schultz paused to sneeze. "Cockroach, may I ask…what do you plan on making? From the ingredients, I am not so certain I would like to sample it."

"Never fear, if LeBeau cooks, it'll still be tasty," Newkirk said, offering a candy bar for incentive. "Now run along so's we can get started, OK?"

_______________

For the next three nights, Hogan feasted on 'special' versions of LeBeau's latest offerings. But neither the spicy guylas, fiery paella nor chipped mystery meat in horseradish sauce had any effect on his throat--- or any other part of his anatomy. In a last ditch effort, Carter called him down to the lab to demonstrate the 'fog' he'd created. Despite making it accidentally on purpose sulfuric, the indestructible Colonel emerged with only the smallest of coughs and suggested the smell be gotten rid of, that was all.

______________

"What do we do?" Dress rehearsal's tomorrow!" Carter grumbled hoarsely.

"Maybe London could drop in a nice 'ot curry?" Newkirk suggested as he lit another cigarette. "We're about out of options, mate. I guess we just 'ave to let him...sing."

"How bad can it be?" Kinch asked. "Never mind," he finished, before anyone else could get in a word. "Never mind."

TBC

_____________________

Schultz's shopping list included hot paprika, black pepper, pungent horseradish and mustard. Curry and chili powders do have traditional medicinal properties in some cultures, including India, but an overdose can temporarily burn your throat, eyes, nose, whatever. Posole is a chili rich stew from New Mexico (I am drooling here). There is a mustard as I described, Yee-oww! (but oh so good), similar to Russian or Chinese varieties. And me, I love home grated horseradish, the hotter the better (with Easter coming up, I'll be making some for the traditional Polish basket of breakfast foods….now I am REALLY getting hungry here).

Hot chilies as we know today had not yet been introduced to most of European cuisine, that came much later. One exception was the Indian food available in Britain. Newkirk is referring to a Bangalore Phall, one of the hottest curries known (brick red sauce---because of the spices!). Yum yum! As eaten by me during my grad school days…at Mile End Road (Queen Mary & Westfield).

There were Indian flight officers flying with the RAF during WW2, both in Asia and Europe. One of my grad school classmates back in England, who was himself in the modern Indian Air Force, told us plenty of interesting stories about their history.

"September in the Rain" and "A Foggy Day in London Town" are both popular songs that were sung at the time.


	3. Chapter 3

Flattery Will Get You…Somewhere, Chapter 3

by Mistress V

_**Disclaimers as in Chapter 1. Some explanatory notes will follow the chapter.**_

_____________________

Dress rehearsal Thursday dawned bright and clear, with the entire camp anticipating a festive Saturday night to come. Friday was to be given over to the final fine-tuning of acts, sets and props. In Barracks 2, the mood was less than eager, though no one had dared confront the obvious. Yet. Plans were being discussed, and straws being cut, however.

Schultz burst into Klink's office as soon as the mail arrived, a brown-paper wrapped parcel under his arm.

"I left orders not to be disturbed," Klink began, annoyed. He was still deciding on what he would perform for the event.

"Forgive me, Herr Kommandant," the guard sputtered, "this parcel has arrived for you! Express, from Hamburg---"

Klink snatched the box before Schultz could finish his sentence. "I can see that, Sergeant," he replied non-committally, his hand raised in a salute. "Dis-missed!"

"But Herr KommanDANT!"

"I *said*, 'Dismissed!' Go rehearse with your fellow _**Herrenfrisreur**_, before I think of some other way to put your copious amount of free time to use. Now, out!" He gave a menacing wave of his hand towards the open door.

Klink once again left orders not to be bothered unless it was an emergency, latched the door, drew the shades and then began unwrapping the present he'd bought himself.

___________________

"So what are you doing?" Wilson asked Carter.

"Making the water heavy. No, not heavy. Thicker." Carter continued adding salt and a few other harmless ingredients to a bucket that sat on the table, stirring as he talked. "Otherwise, the liquid will spread out too thin when it hits the window. We want to see a drop pattern like rain, and this'll give it to us."

"What's in that?" Hogan was curious.

"The same salt we use to keep the ice from getting too bad during the winter. Schultz got me some from the supply barrack. Plus a few harmless extras, to make it stick. That reminds me, Newkirk, I need to coat the windowpanes with some stuff too. Can you get those for me?"

"Sure thing, mate. I'll pop 'em out this mornin'. Now 'ow're you makin' fog again?"

"Oh, that." Carter gave a smile of triumph. "I convinced Klink, well, Colonel Hogan did, that a small order of dry ice was needed for any Kommandant's party supply closet. Next wingding he throws, I'll make the punchbowl extra festive. And in the meantime, we get a foggy day in London town as a fringe benefit."

"I say, you really are quite clever, old chap," Langdon said in admiration. "We could have used you 'round the quads at Cambridge, set the mood for some of our little soirees."

"Stand still," LeBeau ordered, checking the hem of the trench coat he and Newkirk were hemming for the corporal's solo.

"Speaking of soirees, I'd better get over to Klink's office and find out what he's doing so I can tell the boys at the print shop. They need to start on the programs." Hogan opened the door, clearing his throat as he did so. He began crossing the yard, his voice stubbornly trailing behind him, right back into the barracks.

"The leaves of brown came tumbling down, remember…"

"Mon Dieu," LeBeau snorted. "We cannot let it 'appen. Tonight, we draw straws. And tomorrow, whoever wins 'as to explain it to the Colonel as, how do you say, diplomatically as possible. "

__________________

Hogan came into the Klink's outer office and was surprised to see not just Schultz at the keyhole, but the normally pedestrian _**Unteroffizier**_ Schmidt as well.

"What's up---?" he began, only to be shushed by both men. They scurried to take up their normal posts.

"OK, is this better?" Hogan asked again, whispering this time. "What's going on in there? Klink interviewing secretaries already?"

"Nein, not yet," Schultz said with a dismissive shake of his head. "But Herr Kommandant has received a package this morning, of the utmost importance."

"Oh?" Hogan tried his best not to look too intrigued. He addressed the younger man. "So why's that news? He gets mail all the time. Did Helga send some of that marzipan from up near where she's staying?"

"No, it is far more interesting."Schmidt lowered his voice conspiratorially. "The return address was from Hamburg. Just the street number, but I know precisely which establishment. It is from-"

"Friedirich's von Hamburg!" Schultz finished theatrically. "And you KNOW what they are famous for!"

"You don't say?" Hogan did know of the prominent supplier to the entertainment industry. "Well, I'll just go in and see what I can see and let you both know, how about that? "

"It is VERBOTEN!" Schultz whispered even more loudly. "The Kommandant has left strict instructions. No one may enter."

"Well, I didn't get those instructions. Besides, it's official business, I have to get the details so he'll be listed correctly in the program." Hogan prepared to knock. "And get me your information, too, I'm going to the print shop next."

________________

Hogan knocked once and opened the door, as he usually did. He looked over the room, noting the drawn shades and a recently opened parcel on the desk.

"Hogan, I said I was not to be interrupted, now what are you doing here?" Klink glowered at his unexpected visitor, fumbling with a desk drawer at the same time.

"I'm sorry, sir." Hogan sat down and made himself comfortable. He pulled out a list and ran his finger down the columns. "You see, the boys over in the print shop need to get cracking on the program for Saturday. And you haven't told me yet what you plan on performing." He paused, sniffing curiously. "You've been for a ride this morning, eh? How's the fitness program going?"

"What fitness program? And why would I have been near a horse? I don't like the creatures." Klink knew this was a lie, he'd done cavalry training in his youth and still enjoyed a good canter.

Hogan also knew Klink wasn't being truthful, so he prodded a bit more. "It's just kind of horsey in here. Don't get me wrong, though." Hogan inhaled deeply. "I like horses myself. Nothing quite like the smell of a stable."

Klink's face was falling by the microsecond. "Smell?" he replied. "Is it that…obvious?"

"Oh, so you were riding? Good for you. Now, about your number." Hogan changed tactics, knowing the further he moved from the topic, the more likely Klink would be to spill his guts.

Sure enough. Klink gave a surreptitious glance down, then spoke. "Hogan, I need your help on a very important task. It directly relates to my appearance. But first you must promise me that word of it will not leave this room."

"I'd like to promise, sir, but what if I can't help…and someone else can? What precisely is this project?" Hogan's curiosity was in overdrive. He'd had a good idea what was coming, but now it sounded ominous.

Klink drew out his recent purchase and placed it on the desk. "This, Hogan. I ordered a hairpiece…and I am not certain how to apply it, let alone what to do about styling. The listing was 'the Baron', but that is all I know. The instructions are so complex." Klink now produced a small pamphlet. "Have you any experience in tonsorial matters?"

Hogan picked the strange looking object up, inhaling as he did so. "Is this *horse*hair?" he finally asked.

"Ja." Klink nodded a little sadly. "With the war and all, most of the company's finest offerings have gone to those wounded in need of toupees during recovery. This was an older model, I presume. But as we say, I must make do. Hogan, can you help me?"

The man's morose expression worried Hogan. He'd never believe that he didn't need such an accessory in his present state of mind. Images of a stern, overly nosy secretary filled Hogan's brain. One who'd think nothing of ponying up to Burkholter, no Hochstetter, if she suspected something was amiss.

"I can't help you exactly, Colonel," he replied. "But don't worry, I've got just the man who can."

TBC

________________

**_Toupees have been around almost as long as people have been losing their hair._**

**_There is not a Friedrich's von Hamburg that I know of---the word is a play on that infamous postwar naughties store, Frederick's of Hollywood (they have sold wigs, though their specialty is outrageous lingerie). Hamburg's Reeperbahn is, and has been, home to numerous cabarets, featuring performers of both sexes---often in drag. They needed hairpieces (and other, er, props). Such a company might wish to make itself appear squeaky clean during Nazi rule, so offering their products to the wounded would be one way of doing so (of course, they could still supply underground needs too---drag shows still went on during the war). Customers like Klink, unable to get the more realistic models produced by, say, Max Factor in Hollywood, had to make do. With horsehair---which has been used in hairpiece manufacture. Think of the toupee Sam Drucker trots out in "Green Acres" now and then and you'll get the idea of what Klink ended up with._**

**_The pioneering work of movie makeup experts Max Factor and his son, where individual strands of hair were hand-sewn to a light lace under piece, would likely not be allowed under the Nazis--- Hollywood was the symbol of all that was wrong with the world, and Factor's family was Jewish._**

**_I am not going to discuss the issue of hair taken from concentration camp prisoners here---not only did it not (as a rule) find its way into wig manufacture, this is meant to be a funny story. Thanks._**

**_My Cpl. Langdon is a more upper-class Brit than Newkirk. I have him leaving Cambridge after his first year to enlist in the RAF. He thinks planes are rather quite spiffing, you know_**.


	4. Chapter 4

Flattery Will Get You…Somewhere, Chapter 4

by Mistress V

_**Special thanks to B&P for unearthing the name of the mysterious wigmaker, Pvt. Nanowski. (IMDB didn't list him). Now a character with no known history is what I love the best…a clean canvas for painting! I'm spelling the Polish a bit phonetically (notes at the end) ---my computer doesn't have a Polish lexicon.**_

_**Hogan and LeBeau briefly mention the Lewis Carroll poem, "The Walrus and the Carpenter" below.**_

"Me?" LeBeau asked Hogan. "ME? Why do I 'ave to work on the bald eagle? Why not Nanowski?"

"Because Klink trusts you. No need giving the Kommandant future ideas about someone he doesn't really know. Now don't make me order you. We're all in this together, right?"

"For once in my life I really DO 'ave the experience and it 'as to be in my cousin's salon de coiffure. And why does Klink trust me? I certainly don't trust 'im!"

"Moving on," Hogan continued pointedly. "Nanowski, what do you make of the instructions?"

"You can read that gibberish? Why would you need to?" LeBeau added.

The tail gunner laughed. "Are you kiddin'? The part of Poland my family's originally from has changed hands so many times, we're our own League of Nations. I can make do with most of the languages around that part of Europe, includin' Krautspeak. Let's see." He finished skimming the yellowing pages. "Sounds like a horsehair on pigskin model. The Baron."

"I can vouch for the horsehair," Hogan agreed, "but pigskin?"

"Breathes the best and the color's closest to our own skin tone. Saw plenty of 'em at **_Chochia Genia's_**1 wig shop in Milwaukee. A big hit with the _**stare dzadzi**_2. I take it the thing's old, then. Most good toupee makers started using human hair after the turn of the century, as more men started buying them."

"Yeah, it looked like it's been sitting in some warehouse since the Franco-Prussian wars. What advice can you give my friend Monsieur Louis here?"

"Well first, you'll need to rub this pomade on the underside. It makes the skin flexible but tacky, helps it adhere better to the scalp. Talc to dry the skin, before you apply it. Too much oil can cause all kinds of slippage. And then once you get the toupee in place, you part it down the middle like so." Nanowski drew a quick sketch of a hairstyle more suited to Prince Consort Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha than the present times. "Then more talc. Helps get rid of that horsey smell."

"Yeah, glad you mentioned that," Hogan remarked. "I'd forgotten."

"Lovely." LeBeau made a face. "Eau de Cheval."

"Top the whole thing off with some of this hair dressing and everything should be fine." Nanowski finished loading up LeBeau's barber kit. "If it gets really bad, say you need something, then come back here and ask me. And remember---don't get that thing wet, whatever you do. The glue can take a little perspiration, but not much else. Otherwise, it dissolves."

____________________

Thanks to his fellow prisoner's instructions, LeBeau was able to transform a balding Klink into a rug headed Klink without too much difficulty.

"How do I look?" he asked, still unsure if this was a good idea or not.

Hogan fought to keep a straight face. Instead of resembling Prince Consort Albert, Klink looked more like a malevolent Alfalfa Switzer. The hair color was the only thing that was right---at least it matched Klink's own.

"Like Valentino 'imself," LeBeau replied, also battling the giggles.

"So what will our new, improved Kommandant be performing?" Hogan continued, trying to change the subject.

"Ahh, yes. I have decided." Klink tied on his_** Rauchjacke**_ and picked up a book. "I thought I would do a dramatic recitation from _**Faust**_," he offered, turning his profile in an attempt to look like a deep intellectual soul. "In keeping with my new image and all."

"Very good sir, an excellent choice. I'd better get this over to the printers right away, then. But no need for you to spoil the surprise---drop by after dress rehearsal is done. Say around 15:00? You can do your own private run through then." Hogan started for the door, relieved there would be no violin mayhem.

"Perfect. Now I must practice my reading. Until later, my fellow _**Truppe**_ members," Klink told them with a little bow. Thankfully, his hair stayed put.

Schmidt and Schultz were in the anteroom, trying their best not to look as though they'd been keysdropping.

"How is it?" Schmidt ventured.

"It looks _**wunderbar**_, all right?" Hogan responded neutrally, though his expression spoke volumes. "That's what we say. Agreed?"

"Ja WOHL!" Schultz responded. He was more than concerned for his Kommandant's well-being of late---and his own. A trip to Stalingrad would not benefit either of them.

_____________________

"Well, at least he's beginning to act like the old Klink again," Hogan observed as the pair made their way to the print shop. "Though I wonder how his staff will take this transformation. The Walrus and the Carpenter back there won't laugh, but what about everyone else? Do you think they'll say anything?"

"Naah, Colonel," LeBeau answered truthfully. " 'Ow does one tell one's commanding officer that something so personal is just not right, something 'e may think is fine? It is a difficult thing. Sometimes, one must be silent and accept the absurdity of pigs having wings, you know?"

"I know, LeBeau. Good thing we don't have that problem in our barracks, isn't it?"

"Oui, Colonel," LeBeau said with a sigh, thinking ahead to the night of the short straw.

_______________________

Klink appeared at the rec hall right on cue, just as the last bits of dress rehearsal were winding down. He carried his _**Rauchjacke**_ and tome under one arm, but otherwise was in full uniform, hat included. His stride was confident as he strolled up the main aisle to where Hogan and his men were making some technical adjustments. For some reason, the sound system had mysteriously gone kaput just as Hogan began his solo, so, like Klink, he'd be doing a private rehearsal.

"Ere, sir, let me 'elp you with your costume," Newkirk offered. He proficiently got the Kommandant into his at-home wear, never once commenting about the strange looking dead animal perched atop the man's head.

"Blimey," he muttered to Nanowski as they watched him mount the stage. "That's bloody awful, it is."

"Actually, it looks better than I thought it would. But that's not saying much. C'mon, let's finish up in here." The private had agreed to stand by incase of a tonsorial emergency, at Hogan's request. It was attached to the general order informing them that even one snicker would bring about serious consequences.

Klink made his way over to Hogan, inspecting the stage set up. "Where should I perform? And how, seated or standing? I want my voice to carry properly." His voice was almost…jovial.

"I think standing over here by the mantelpiece will give you that scholarly air, sir," Hogan replied, indicating the fireplace prop, complete with colored paper flames. "Let's see how the lights look. Kinch?"

_________________

"You've got to get you back into it more," Carter insisted, re-stirring the soup kettle full of 'rain'. "I hardly saw anything on the window. Most of it ended up on those blankets here."

"Sorry," Olsen shrugged. "Guess I was afraid of damaging something."

"With what? It's just water and salt, plenty more where that came from and it's sure not harmful. Here, let me show you. " He refilled the bucket, to the brim this time. "Like this. One, two, three, bombs away!"

Unfortunately for everyone concerned, the windows Newkirk had been removing and replacing that morning were not all tightly fitted. The force of Carter's gung-ho launch not only made a spectacular show, it knocked out the top pane, which sent a flume of salty brine through the opening. Both Klink, who was in mid-verse, and Hogan, who was checking the man's marks, were soaked from head to shoulders.

Hogan felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as he watched Klink's newly styled toupee slide oozily down the side of his face, in pieces. He reached out, trying to catch the worst of the damage. Klink opened his mouth, his face purple with rage, but before he could even utter one "DUMMKOPF!" another voice cut through the warm air.

"KLINK! Vhat is ze meaning of zis? Why are you out of uniform? And vhat are zese prisoners doing to you? Do zey not know it is against regulations for a Third Reich officer to be touched in any way?" Major Hochstetter leaped smartly onto the stage, his eyes ablaze. "And vhat vas zat on your head? Not a toupee, surely?"

"Major Hochstetter, let me assure you…" Klink began, fumbling out of his damp costume and back into the uniform jacket Hogan now held out.

"We shall discuss zis in your office. Now." Hochstetter took in the surroundings. "And vhat is happening here? Not another of your little shows, perhaps? Ze ones staged to cover up something else? You cannot fool me. Zere shall be NO SHOW!" He stamped his foot for emphasis.

"Just a minute, Major," Hogan interrupted, waiting for the obvious.

"Vhat is zis man doing here, Klink?" Hochstetter snarled, right on cue.

"Hold you horses," Hogan continued, handing the sodden toupee behind his back to Nanowski. "Major, this show is the combined effort of everyone here for entertainment, nothing more. In fact, it's going to be such a success, we plan to give it a full page in the camp newspaper, complete with pictures from Cpl. Langenscheidt. A little something the Red Cross might be interested in reading about, maybe?"

"And perhaps the general staff in Berlin as well?" Klink ventured. "After all, we have much talent right here in the camp staff. Why not showpiece it? Our own troops deserve a positive portrayal, it would help boost morale all around…wouldn't it?"

"BAAH! Morale is fine vizout zese frivolities." Hochstetter paused, but it was clear his mind was working overtime. There *had* been some rather unfortunate publicity lately, and rumor had it the Führer himself wasn't pleased.

"I have invited General Burkholter. Surely you would not wish to disappoint him?" Klink threw in. He glanced imploringly at Schultz, who swiftly waddled out the door to alert Schmidt of the call he now had to make.

"Why not come to the show yourself, Major?" Hogan iced the torte skillfully. "Heck, bring some extra men. Got any hidden talent? We'd gladly make room for them in the program!"

"To your office, Klink." Hochstetter glanced menacingly back at the prisoners. "I have my eye on you, Hogan," he threw over his shoulder, like a poorly-aimed dart.

Hogan resisted the temptation to yawn. "That's great Major. All the better to see my act on Saturday night, isn't it?"

When he was certain the men were safely out of earshot, Hogan motioned to Kinch. "Get on the radio. Tell London under no circumstances can we mount any ops on Saturday. In order to ensure the continued success of our little project here, we've got to play this one by the book, and that means all present and accounted for."

"Right sir," Kinch replied, silently praying he would not be the one to draw the short straw.

______________________

Hogan met with Klink after dinner.

"Newkirk got your jacket shipshape. But I'm afraid the toupee was a complete loss." He handed the pieces of horsehair and pigskin, neatly wrapped in some newspaper, back to the man. "Now if you'd really like a nice model, one of my men works with hair. His aunt runs a wig store in Milwaukee and he used to help out there."

"Thank you Hogan, but I cannot accept your generous offer, much as I would like to." Klink sighed. "Major Hochstetter informed me that no officer of the Third Reich would wear such a thing unless they were recovering from severe wounds that necessitated it…or to keep warm. As in on the Russian Front."

"Ouch. Or should I say brr?" Hogan got up and poured out two shots for them . "To your performance, then? You're still doing Faust, I hope."

"Yes, the Major *insisted* I do Faust, to promote German literature. As for being youthful once more, as they say, there is no fool like an old fool. Thankfully, General Burkholter will not be bringing Gertrude. She is away visiting her sister-in-law."

"Thank goodness for small favors, then. Another toast?"

"Why not?" Klink said. "I haven't anything else to lose."

____________________

While Hogan was out, the draw happened. The short straw fell to Cpl. Langdon.

"Oh dear," the man frowned. "Jolly bad show. What am I supposed to tell the man? I mean, he's not even in my own air force, you know."

"That he cannot sing. End of story," LeBeau replied, relieved to his toes.

"Never mind, mate," Newkirk said sympathetically. "I'm sure you'll think o' something."

TBC.

________________________

_**1. Aunt Jean (Polish for Jean is Genevieve, or Genia, for short. Pronounced "Chocha Gyenya.")**_

_**2. Literally, old grandpas. Translates to old farts.**_

**_Alfalfa Switzer starred in the "Our Gang/Little Rascals" films of the 30's. His hair was always parted down the middle and slicked down._**


	5. Chapter 5

Flattery Will Get You Somewhere, Chapter 5

by Mistress V

Langdon took a deep breath and prepared to knock on Hogan's door the next morning after roll call. He'd rehearsed and rehearsed the lines that were choking him, but the thought of telling the man (in a roundabout way) that his voice resembled a sawmill gone terribly wrong was still most unpleasant.

He tapped rather timidly. Perhaps the Colonel was not in.

"Come in!" a voice boomed, though not Hogan's. Wilson's.

Langdon peered cautiously around the door, wondering why the medic was visiting. "Good morning, sir," he began, as pleasantly as possible.

"Hi there, Langdon." Hogan gave a cursory nod, which was rather difficult due to the fact the medic was shining a flashlight in his right ear. "What can I do for you?"

"About that scarf of yours I'm borrowing for my number," the corporal continued. A ruse, but necessary for the segue.

"EH?" Hogan raised his voice. "Just a minute, let Wilson finish what he's up to. Have a seat."

Langdon sat and nervously lit a cigarette, though he was quite curious about what was happening. He watched Wilson continue gently prodding Hogan's ear with an improvised Q-Tip. Hogan did his best not to wince too much. After a few minutes, the medic finished his job and addressed his patient.

"Like you said, Colonel," the medic stated, his voice several notches above normal. "That little unexpected shower you had aggravated the ear. You've got a mild flare-up of _otitis externa._"

"Great," Hogan grunted. "I've had swimmer's ear since I was a kid, so I know what to expect. I'll be deaf in this one ear for a couple of days and it'll hurt. What else can you do, doc?"

"I'll have Carter whip up some Burrow's Solution for you to use. Otherwise, no hair washing or getting that ear wet under any circumstances. And it's too swollen for you to use the earplug, I'm afraid." Wilson started packing up his supplies. "Tough luck, sir. But at least you're not flying a mission; you'd have been grounded for sure."

"You got that right," Hogan replied. "That's why I have the earplug in the first place. They couldn't risk an airman with ear trouble."

Langdon continued watching the scenario before him unfold. His mind was churning like that spiffing new washing machine his mother insisted on having for the staff back home. He thought for a moment longer, formulating the precise phraseology---

"Well," Hogan finished for him, "there goes any singing for me. It's the ear I listen to myself with. I just can't do it on the other one." He sighed, disgusted.

"You're probably right, Colonel," Wilson quickly agreed. His tone was a strange mixture of commiseration and relief. "As they say in show business, those are the breaks."

"Wait a moment!" Langdon burst in excitedly. "Sir, I believe I've got it! You can still perform, and I'll help you!"

"What?" Wilson's eyebrows jumped into his hairline. He wondered if he had a case of lunacy to see next.

Hogan leaned forward with his good ear. "Go on," he entreated.

"Instead of singing, just recite the song like a dramatic verse. You know it by heart don't you, sir?" Langdon started warming to the idea.

"Sure. I could say it in my sleep."

"Jolly good! I'll accompany you on the piano, but nothing structured. Just a little improvisation on the song's melody. And you'd say your lines, with the same feeling you'd have if it they were being sung. Think that might work?" Langdon wanted to jump up and down with glee. No one *said* he HAD to tell Hogan he couldn't sing, the idea was to keep him from doing so. A fine loophole, he thought.

"I think it'd work just fine, Langdon. What'll I wear, though?" Hogan tapped a finger across his lips.

"A sweater, maybe with an ascot. Something to give you that sensitive look of a man remembering someone he misses. How about in front of the fireplace, in that armchair?" Wilson joined in, equally glad the problem had solved itself, in a manner of speaking.

_______________

The men left Hogan in his office, busily practicing his lines. Langdon motioned for the group to follow the pair outside, where they quickly learned the news. Everyone was relieved at the sudden turn of events, though sorry to learn of Hogan's condition. None more so than Carter, who hurried off to mix up some of the aluminum acetate based solution.

"Just a minute," LeBeau said. "You did not tell 'im what you were supposed to."

"No need to, old chap. The idea was not to let him sing, remember? Well, he's not, is he? He's reciting poetry to musical accompaniment. Nothing terrible about his speaking voice, is there?" Langdon gave a luxurious exhale of his cigarette. "Mission accomplished. And the least you could do is give me kudos for thinking of the alternate scenario."

"Trust a law student," Newkirk muttered, though not without some grudging admiration. "We really didn't 'ave a contract, just an idea. And the end result's the same, maybe better."

"But what about next time?" Baker ventured.

"We'll cross that bridge when we 'ave to. "Opefully, the Colonel will be off blowing it up, anyway," LeBeau replied. "For now, we should go finish decorating the rec hall and count our blessings. Come on."

__________________

Hogan and LeBeau were summoned to Klink's office later that afternoon. They were surprised to find the Kommandant in a happy mood, the polar opposite of how he'd been the night before.

"I shall need your culinary skills, Corporal," he said. "For tomorrow evening. A nice after-performance supper for a small group."

" 'Ow many?" LeBeau tiredly began making notes. "And what would you like to serve?" Another dinner for overstuffed brass, he thought. Let them eat tripe.

"Let me see. Feminine tastes are decidedly more refined than those of us military officers." Klink continued thinking, a smile on his face.

"Female?" Hogan interrupted. He put a hand on LeBeau's arm. "Come on, sir, tell us who it is. Not Gertrude Burkholter, I hope?"

Klink scowled momentarily. "No," he said dismissively, "though her brother will be part of the group, so we have to account for his appetite. The ladies, there will be three of them."

"_**Three**_?" Now LeBeau's curiosity was piqued. Three at once? What had gotten into Klink, and could he bottle and sell it?

"All right, I shall tell you. I went to the _**Postamt **_this morning, to return that unfortunate purchase I recently made. It seems there is a temporary postmistress here in Hammelburg. She is taking the place of Herr Lutz, who has gone with his wife to visit the new_** Enkelin**_ in München for three weeks. A widow, she is from Würzburg. Her husband met his demise east of here." Klink paused to shake his head. "A terrible waste of a good officer."

Hogan and LeBeau nodded in agreement. There but for the grace of whatever…

"Anyway, Frau Koppel and I got to talking about the best way to send the parcel back and how to obtain a refund. I ended up taking her to luncheon. She is a delightful woman, quite striking. And she told me such a distinguished officer as myself had no need for special accoutrements." Klink ran a hand lightly over his bald dome.

"We could have told you that, sir. Right, LeBeau?" Hogan told him, equally pleased the old Klink was shining through so radiantly.

"Oui, Colonel. " 'E is fine as is." LeBeau offered a smile to Klink. "But why am I cooking for three women? Has she daughters?"

"No, her only son is serving with Rommel. But we spoke at length during the meal and it transpired Greta is staying with an old school friend of hers here in Hammelburg, who works at the hospital. And *she* has a daughter that is quite experienced in secretarial matters. So I invited Greta to the show tomorrow evening and asked that she be accompanied by her friend, Frau Bachman, and her daughter. I have just received word that she will be making the journey from Würzburg tomorrow to join them. The poor young woman is looking for work, it seems. The publishing house she was employed at has been damaged…" Klink did not finish, though it was obvious they all knew why the establishment no longer published.

"So you're going to vet the potential new secretary, eh? Good idea. In that case, make it something light and conducive to lots of conversation," Hogan suggested. "By the way, Colonel. Do you know the candidate's name?"

"Yes," Klink beamed. "Her name is_** Fräulein**_ Hilda Bachman."

TBC!

Hogan has a mild case of swimmer's ear.


	6. Chapter 6

Flattery Will Get You…Somewhere, Chapter 6

by Mistress V

_**Some informational notes: I am describing mid 40's fashion and hairstyles from actual examples of the time, though I may have changed details. Germany had instituted clothing rationing early on, as well as for food---the military's needs came first. So clothing and footwear were mended, remade or converted. People wore clothes that were decades old and simply made do, same as in other countries. Yes, there was a black market but the penalties were severe for those who were caught. of course, military officers could get most things.**_

_**As mentioned in some of the forums, women (and men) donned hats on a daily basis. Ladies wore gloves. Their stockings were made of cotton lisle or silk, though the former could be darned and thus lasted longer. Furs were still worn, both to keep warm and to remind the wearer of another, more halcyon time.**_

_**Cosmetics were also rationed; bans on lipstick in Germany and Britain proved unsuccessful. Eventually, glamour won a small victory as it was felt that the sight of prettily made up women would bolster troop morale on both sides of the Atlantic. Regarding the lipstick described here, the brass tube and inscription are historically accurate to the timeframe, though the color name is out of my imagination.**_

The prospect of cooking a summer supper for three females, even if they were German, inspired LeBeau. He swiftly made up a suitable menu, which Klink slavered over. Then he raided the Kommandant's private stock and set about making a light, delicate _Crème Bavariose_ and put it to firm overnight in the icebox. Early the next day, he and Schultz went to the market in Hammelburg to procure the ingredients for a chilled cucumber soup and _Filets de Sole Pompadour_ with new potatoes, plus raspberries for the dessert sauce. In the meantime, Carter and Cpl. Schmidt dug through Klink's _**WeinKellar **_for supplies so a festive cold punch could be served to the special guests prior to the show. Klink's refrigerator was going to be stuffed to capacity, it seemed.

Klink asked to see Hogan midmorning.

"I planned to invite you to supper anyway, to thank you for introducing me, so to speak, to Frau Koppel," he began. "But then it occurred to me. How would it appear if I spent the evening talking with Fraülein Hilda, even under the pretext of ascertaining her suitability for the job I am offering? I mean, she is quite young."

"And pretty, I'm sure," Hogan agreed. "No, you're right. That wouldn't be the best move. You say this Frau Koppel is still here in Hammelburg for a few weeks, so you don't want to spoil anything for yourself, if you know what I mean?" He winked at the man. "Plus, she knows this Hilda's mother, doesn't she?"

"Yes, they are both from this region, although they ended up living in Würzburg. I am hoping to learn more of this story tonight during dinner. Frau Bachman's husband is serving with the general staff in Berlin, though I do not know precisely where. At any rate, I will be busy entertaining the ladies, so I was wondering, Hogan, if you might…sound out Fraülein Hilda discretely? Find out some things about her; see if she is amenable to working for me in such a position? You do have a way with the females, I must admit. "

"I'd be more than happy to do so, sir," Hogan responded, pleased not only at the idea of a nice meal, but an indirect influence on who would be working for Klink. The right candidate would make all the difference and Hogan was determined to run the gauntlet in determining Hilda's suitability.

__________________

Hogan managed a shower despite his painful ear, glad he'd given a good scrubbing to his hair the day before. Never mind Carter's bumbling, things were turning out even better than planned.

"I need something special," he told Newkirk as he finished up the Colonel's shave and manicure. "Something female special, for testing the waters. What have you got in the way of a lipstick?"

Newkirk proficiently dug out his ever-changing supply of goodies. "I think I 'ave jus the thing, sir," he replied, handing Hogan a small brass tube. "Came in last week with that crew. One bloke had it, says it worked better than stockings an' took up less space. It's in perfect condition, too. Never been used."

Hogan examined the item. The tubing was made of brass, corrugated in a checkerboard design. On the top was stamped a crest and artfully flowing script proclaimed, "Max Factor, Hollywood, USA". He opened it and swiveled up the color stick, which was bright, luscious red.

"WOW!" Carter whistled. "I can just see Betty Grable in that! What's the color?"

"Cherry On the Top," Hogan read. "It's a newer shade, too. I don't remember this from my prewar days. Should do the trick nicely. Thanks, Newkirk. I'll let you know how it works out."

"I'll probably see the evidence on your collar," Newkirk laughed. "At least for your sake, I 'ope I do!"

As Hogan got ready for the evening ahead, he thought about the gift. There was more to it than met the eye. For one thing, Hollywood had been decried by the Nazi régime as immoral and scandalous. So if this Hilda reacted with pleasure, chances were she appreciated the finer things in life, like stockings. That was good. And the more subtle test was the manufacturer. Not only was it Hollywood, it was from a known Jewish manufacturer whose products were likely persona non grata within the Third Reich. It would be interesting to see how things went. If it all fell apart, Hogan was certain he could talk himself out of the situation. But he had a feeling he would not need to.

_________________________

Carter carefully set the block of dry ice in the punchbowl. He and Schmidt watched as vapors swirled out of the liquid, giving the room an almost ethereal air. The corporal poured out two glasses for them and they drank a small toast.

"Hey, this is good stuff! Where'd you learn how to make it?" Carter asked the German.

"My uncle has a _**WeinStube**_ back home," Schmidt replied. "After the war is over, I plan to go into partnership with him. It is one of our local specialties."

"Could you give me the recipe? I can swap you for *my* Uncle's special reserve."

Further postwar speculation was cut short by a signal from Hogan and LeBeau. "Schultz just pulled up," the chef whispered. "Let's go see what he brought."

The little group gazed out the front window and saw Klink saunter jauntily down the steps to where Schultz, in his best dress uniform, was opening the door of the staff car recently buffed and waxed, courtesy of the boys from barracks two.

A chestnut-haired female, who looked to be in her early forties, was the first to get out. Klink took her gloved hand in his and gave it a proper Prussian kiss. This must be Frau Koppel, Hogan thought. The woman's summer silk dress came from another decade but still looked as elegant as the matching veiled pillbox hat set back on her chignon. A fox fur, complete with head and paws, complete the ensemble, harking back to different times altogether. Obviously, Herr Koppel had done reasonably well in life before the war.

Frau Koppel then turned to help another woman out of the car. She was the same age, it appeared, with light blond hair streaked with a little grey. The crisp uniform indicated she was a nurse, but whether she was coming off duty or about to go on, it was impossible to tell. Her expression was pleasant as she was introduced to Klink.

"_**Eine Krankenschwester**_!" Schmidt informed the men, unnecessarily. The cap and insignia made that perfectly clear.

A third female now emerged from the car. Hogan immediately noticed beige colored cotton stockings over shapely legs. Plain white court shoes, carefully polished, followed. Their owner stood up, the folds of her navy blue linen sheath falling neatly into place. A lemony hued short sleeved coatee completed the ensemble, though Hogan could tell from the elaborate adornment of buttons and tabs that the outfit probably dated from just before German hostilities began. It did not matter. The lady, and she was one, wore it well. Her hair was flaxen blonde, complemented by a feminine straw hat. She held a matching straw bag in a gloved hand.

"Ooh laa la!" LeBeau breathed appreciatively.

"I'll say!" Carter added.

"I'm with you, guys," Hogan agreed.

"Schön…nein, Scheiß" Schmidt muttered to himself, nodding towards the gate.

Sure enough, just after General Burkholter's staff car came an unmistakable vehicle that could only belong to one not so welcome guest.

Major Hochstetter had indeed decided to crash the party.

TBC…


	7. Chapter 7

_**First of all, 10,000 thank-yous to everyone who gave feedback to the ideas I bounced off them. You know who you are, and I appreciate it very much.**_

_**Since we know next to nothing, I am guessing at Hilda's family background here. The atrocities of the Third Reich ran through most career choices, but for the purposes of my story, please take them as what they are: positions. I'm not writing about the darker side of the war, but I am well aware there were bad apples everywhere, just as there were ordinary citizens muddling through. In reality, Hilda and Helga may well have been suspect for not conforming to the 3 K's of the Reich: Kirch, Küchen und Kinder (Church, Cooking and Children) if they were unmarried. And many men who had seen injury in WW1 found themselves working in administrative posts within the military in the next war, thus freeing up the more mobile and strong for the front. The SS was a huge and complex organization. Yes, it administered many horrible things, but it also dealt with day to day procedure, too.**_

Flattery Will Get You….Somewhere, Chapter 7

by Mistress V

Schmidt hurried to open the front door, snapping smartly to as Klink ushered in his guests. General Burkholter followed at their heels. Introductions were just being made and drinks being poured with the inevitable disruption happened.

"Good evening, Klink," Hochstetter said flatly as he swept in. Clearly, he was not thrilled to find not only three women but the general there as well. "I have accepted your invitation to attend, and have brought along zis guard to participate in ze program." He indicated a younger man standing alongside. "He shall sing, to open ze evening. I trust that is all right?" A menacing gleam started to appear, as usual, in the major's eye.

"Certainly, Major." Klink kept his expression pleasant, though he thought ahead to the overly inquisitive meddler's possible conversation during dinner. To which he had obviously invited himself. "Schultz, take the Major's guest to the rec hall and see he is taken care of."

"Ja WOHL, Herr Kommandant!" Schultz responded, also thinking that with an extra place set at the dinner table, leftovers might not be so generous. With a shrug, he motioned for the guard to follow.

As Hochstetter walked past the drinks table, the icy steam emanating from the punchbowl caught his attention. "Drink, sir?" Carter asked professionally, holding up a cup.

Hochstetter accepted the vessel but not to drink from. He examined it with a professionally suspicious eye. "Vas is zis frivolity?" he asked Klink pointedly. "Some kind of poison ze prisoners have made for you?"

Klink, scarlet with embarrassment *and* rage at the interloper's impudence, started to protest but was interrupted by the cultured voice of his present administrative aide.

"It is _**Punsch **_Nuremberg, Herr Major," Schmidt replied smoothly. "As served in my own uncle's establishment there. Perhaps you and your colleagues may have visited it on occasion?"

Hochstetter's gaze met the NCO's. He was surprised to find it as steady as his own. With a muttered "Baah!" he joined Klink's guests.

________________________

"So, what's your name mate, and what's your game?" Newkirk asked the newest addition to the evening, who'd shown up just as he finished running through his magic routine.

"I am_** Rottenführer**_ Joachim Herbst from Münster and I shall sing 'Wenn Alle Untreu Werden' this evening," the younger man replied.

"Right then," Newkirk said, making additional notes on his cheat sheet. "I don't suppose you 'll be needing any musical accompaniment?"

"_**Nein.**_"

Newkirk peered at the man. Something was off, but he couldn't quite figure out what. "Is there anythin' else, then? You can practice onstage right now, if you'd like."

Herbst turned his head to an angle and continued gazing at Newkirk. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth lifted just a micrometer. Finally, he spoke.

"I believe there is something in your ear," he informed Newkirk, drawing out not one, but two cigarettes.

"Is that so, mate? Well, I see something in your ear, too." Newkirk just as smoothly produced a match. "You do anythin' else?" he continued as the two part-time _**Zauberer **_had a companionable smoke.

A pair of spoons now materialized in Herbt's free hand. "Ja, I do many other things, but Herr Major would have me playing these in Stalingrad if I were to perform such. Let us just say I am pleased to be serving him this evening and hope the show will be enjoyable."

"You're in the right place, mate. I'll be needin' a volunteer for my act," Newkirk replied. "How about you?"

"I shall do my best to appear surprised at your offerings," Herbst told him.

___________________

"This is Frau Maria Bachman," Klink said, continuing with the introductions. "And her daughter, Fraülein Hilda.

Burkholter and Hogan nodded politely at the woman, murmuring pleasantries. Hogan gave the younger lady the once over and was surprised to find her glancing surreptitiously his way as well. Hmmm, he thought, sipping at his drink. Hmmmmm.

"Did you say Bachman?" Hochstetter interrupted.

"Ja, Major Hochstetter," the nurse replied. "Have we met?"

"_**Nein**_, not officially, but are you perhaps married to Herr Oskar Bachman?" For some reason, the major's normally bravado-laced voice had dropped a notch.

"Ahh, you know my husband then? We have been married many years now." Frau Bachman's reply was pleasant, but Hogan sensed the atmosphere in the room charging.

"_**Obersturmbannführer Bachman**_? Of the WVHA?" Now Burkholter joined the conversation, his tone suddenly respectful.

"That is my Oskar."

Holy sh*t, Hogan thought.

"But_** meine**_ Frau, such an esteemed lady as yourself need not be working so hard!" Hochstetter now sounded solicitous, obviously sensing the chance a good word might reach the husband's ear, even if they were in completely separate divisions. "Why are you doing nursing duty?"

"I appreciate your concern, Major, but I am a _**Geburtshilfe**_ specialist, and babies continue being born all day and all night. What better way to allow younger and more experienced nurses to serve on the front than for those such as myself to remain behind and assist with local needs?"

The woman's tone continued to be pleasant, though Hogan sensed she'd said the same lines many times before. He stole a peek at her daughter. To his surprise, she was still casting glances in his direction, too, although she was flanked by Hochstetter and Burkholter on either side. From a respectable distance, naturally.

Klink glanced at his watch. "I believe we should be making our way to the recreation hall, everyone," he announced. "Perhaps we may continue this fascinating conversation with dinner?"

"I'll get the ladies' things," Hogan offered.

As he gathered the items, he weighed his options. The daughter was pretty and quite well-spoken. She seemed more than a little interested in him, but how could they converse about an American POW at dinner? Then there was the question of her father. He was obviously highly placed and equally highly regarded in the SS. The fact Hochstetter was smarming all over the mother probably meant the Fraülein wasn't a plant---the poor Major never could act very well, his enthusiasm here was all too real. Still, one never knew. The best way to find out where this Hilda's loyalty lay was to test it. Subtly, but a test just the same. Hogan reached into his pocket and palmed the lipstick. Better he knew now.

Hogan was lucky. Klink only had eyes for Frau Greta, while both Burkholter and Hochstetter eagerly assisted Frau Bachman with her navy serge cape. That left him free to hand over Fraülein Hilda's purse. Their eyes met again, briefly, then Hogan let his gaze fall to the floor.

"I believe you dropped this?" he asked politely, holding up the shining tube.

Hilda took the item and gave it a cursory glance, then smiled back broadly. "Why yes, how clumsy of me. Thank you, Colonel Hogan."

Hogan could have sworn the lady winked at him

TBC. We'll learn more about Hilda's father soon!

Nuremberg Punch actually exists. It's composed of sugar, orange juice and rind, Batavia Arrack (a sugar cane based liquor found in parts of Asia) and red or white wine. I figure Schmidt managed to find what he needed (or a good substitute) to throw it together. It's listed in the 1935 _**Legend of Liquers, Wines and Spirits **_that belonged to my father. (Some REALLY interesting drinks in there!)_**  
**_


	8. Chapter 8

Flattery Will Get You…Somewhere, Chapter 8

by Mistress V

_**A/N: The events described by Hilda are historically accurate, but my interpretation of how things went is my own. Cape Town was a staging point for British-held POW's en route to North America, we'll learn more in the next chapter.**_

_**LeBeau's offering in the show, which is also title of one of my stories, made its debut in the 1938 Broadway musical "Right This Way", so it's entirely possible he knows the tune.**_

_**And lastly, although we've never seen if Klink has a garden-like area behind his quarters, that doesn't mean there is not a little one. In some other depictions of POW Kommandants, they have been seen so I am being creative again.**_

___________________

The show went off without a hitch. From his front row seat, Hogan enjoyed one talented offering after another. He and Klink performed their dramatic renditions stellarly. But even they were overshadowed by two amazing acts. First, there was Johnson, who'd rounded up several prairie-minded fellow POW's and performed a creditable version of "Tumbling Tumbleweeds." And then there was the astonishing debut of Newkirk and Herbst. The two magicians (though Herbst played his initial role of 'volunteer' to the hilt) amazed and entertained the audience. For once, no one ended up with raw eggs in their hat or a smashed wristwatch. The three ladies in attendance did receive floral bouquets and Hochstetter even applauded.

Hogan had already put Plan Interrupt into operation, although at Newkirk's behest, the actual diversion arose just after the show ended, not during. Newkirk had gone to bat for his fellow illusionist, saying it would be against the magician's code of honorable secrecy to do otherwise. Hogan agreed, knowing a mid-show disruption would more likely be viewed as suspicious. He instead asked Langenscheidt to photograph their performance in detail. This was something both sides would love publicity-wise, he reasoned, and that couldn't hurt the POW cause.

The supper guests were just arriving back at Klink's quarters when the switchboard began to ring. Schmidt and Schultz were lagging further behind, having performed in the barbershop quartet finale. Hilda quickly assessed the situation.

"Allow me," she offered, clearly intent on showing her secretarial skills. She proficiently answered the call and then handed it over to Hochstetter. "It is for you, Herr Major," she said crisply.

Hogan discretely used this time to check on LeBeau's progress on the meal. Fortunately, even with a brief interruption for the passionate Frenchman to perform "I'll Be Seeing You" (in French), a capella and to a three hankied audience, dinner was ready to be served.

By the time Hogan returned to the table, Major Hochstetter was making profuse apologies for being called away to Berlin so suddenly. Relieved there would be no more outside interference, Hogan took his place at the table and contentedly spooned up the chilled cucumber-mint soup. The dinner conversation was kept light and breezy. The topic choice was simple. They all discussed the show.

"So tell us, Colonel Hogan," Hilda began as the main course dishes were being cleared away. "Have you still these 'Cowboys' in the United States?"

"We enjoyed the film about your 'Annie Oakley' very much," her mother added.

"Ladies," Hogan said with a smile, "yes, there are still cowboys working on ranches out in the western part of America. Indians as well. Me, I come from an urban area, not the country. But aren't there the equivalent of cowboys in Germany? I mean, who takes care of the cattle?"

"We do not have the, what do you call it, 'wide open spaces' here," Klink replied, obviously pleased to be showing off his knowledge to his guests. "At least not as you know them. A _**Herde**_ needs only to be taken from the winter barn to summer pasture, which youths do. Buckaroos are not necessary."

"As a youth, I myself enjoyed the stories of Karl May immensely," Burkholter threw in. "The Führer has even recommended his works to our armed forces."

"Perhaps the Colonel wishes to be a buckaroo someday," Hilda persisted, subtly steering the conversation back to the man on her right. "Do not all American boys dream of this? "

"No, ma'am. I dreamed of being a pilot," Hogan replied, and the group laughed as they began dessert.

______________

"So what will you do with all this …_**Abfall**_?" Schultz asked as he tucked into his sole. He eyed LeBeau, who was busily gathering up all the 'garbage' from the main course and tying it into a piece of cheesecloth.

"It will make an excellent boullibase," the chef de cuisine replied. "All I need is a few vegetables, perhaps some crackers and we will have a fine Sunday lunch tomorrow."

"I can provide some bread," the guard offered between bites. "And I happen to know Herr Kommandant plans to take Frau Koppel for a drive in the country tomorrow---himself---and then for luncheon and the _**Kino**_. So what time shall we eat?"

"Say at midday?" LeBeau knew he could use this treat as leverage later on, and he planned to.

"Is the coffee ready, guys?" Carter interrupted. "Klink suggested they have it out in the garden."

The *garden*?" LeBeau sputtered. "That postage stamp? "

"It is a beautiful evening," Schmidt mused, "and there is lovely company. Perhaps romance is in the air?"

Schultz gave the corporal a sidelong glance. "Are you sure you are not part French?" he asked kiddingly, then immediately apologized to his provider. "Sorry, cockroach."

LeBeau harrumphed as he poured coffee into a decorative pot.

"The world loves a lover," Schmidt continued, a little sadly. "And I miss my Konstanz so."

"Never mind," Carter offered sympathetically. "You can at least enjoy the scenery, right?"

"Ja…"

____________________

"So were you able to find out anything?" Hochstetter asked his driver as they sped back to Berlin.

"_**Nein**_, only the name of a fine establishment of magic supplies in London," Herbst replied. Which I shall visit as soon as I am able, he finished silently. "You know how tight-lipped those prisoners are, especially magicians."

"Baah. Still, the evening was not a total loss. I am certain word of your fine rendition shall reach the Führer, once a suitable article is written by the propaganda bureau. And perhaps Frau Bachman will also report to her husband about the event, too. She seemed to be enjoying herself."

"And her daughter as well. Such a lovely young woman," Herbst agreed.

"It would be wise not to pursue such thoughts," Hochstetter cautioned. "Considering just who her father is."

______________________________

Despite its rather minuscule size, the little _**Garten **_adjoining Klink's quarters was filled with late summer foliage and blooms. The prisoners tended it lovingly, glad for a chance to see something green and growing brighten up the landscape, even if the general population seldom had much opportunity to view its splendors. And Klink enjoyed puttering around it now and then.

General Burkholter and Klink fought to outdo each other with fabulous tales of their service in the first war, hoping to impress the women. That left Hilda free to draw Hogan off towards the corner, where some damask roses were giving out a delightful scent in the evening air.

"I wanted to thank you for your gift," she began.

Hogan shrugged. "A pretty woman always looks prettier with lipstick, that's what they say. I'm glad you like it."

"I suppose you are curious as to why I wish to work for the Kommandant," Hilda continued, nodding at Klink, who beamed in response.

"Not really. I figure you need a job, just like we all do, right?" Hogan kept his reply light, but he did wonder.

"I really need this position, Colonel Hogan. Have you any advice for me?" Hilda's expression changed, though she remained smiling.

"Tell Colonel Klink he looks distinguished. He'll like that. Smile a lot." Hogan was being deliberately playful now.

"Colonel HOGAN, I *know* that much. My mother told me this and so did Frau Koppel!"

"Can you type, take dictation, file, all the usual things?"

"Of course. I have been a secretary for many years now. But I truly wish *this* particular post. Can you help me?" Hilda lifted an eyebrow.

"I could tell Klink I think you're prefect for the job, but I doubt he'd ask my opinion. Why me? I'm just a prisoner of war. But as long as you're asking, I'll do some telling." He allowed his eyes to meet the woman's. "If you're coming here so you can spy for your father, I can tell you right now you're wasting your time. We've had plenty of _agents provocateur_ through this camp and they haven't gotten anything out of us."

Hilda gave a small giggle of surprise. "My *father*? Why would I spy for him? He writes economic treatises and guides currency matters. There is no need for subterfuge. But you are partly correct; my being here will no doubt assist his own standing."

Hogan did not reply, though he sensed the woman had something else to say.

"And I hope I might be able to assist someone else's standing, too," she continued, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"Your fiancée?" Hogan asked, and then wanted to kick himself across the North Sea when he saw her expression fall.

"No, Colonel. But someone I do love, and miss. My brother, Markus."

"What can I do? I'm just a prisoner of war, remember? Any letters we get here are censored. Sometimes all that's left is the date and the signature." Hogan tried to remain firm but the tears he saw gathering in Hilda's eyes softened his heart a little. "All right," he relented. "Tell me about him, Maybe…maybe I have heard something."

Hilda took a long sip of her cooling coffee. Her voice had the barest tremor to it as she began to speak. "Markus was a medical student. In fact, he began his studies in Berlin just after the Olympics concluded. My family attended the Games, and that was when I fell in love with our capital. I was only a foolish schoolgirl, but the thought of cafes and intellectual discussions and fashionably dressed citizens and bright lights appealed to me. So I spent holidays with my brother when I could and learned to be a secretary there one summer. Then, things changed."

The war.

Hogan nodded. "Go on," he said quietly, glancing at the others, who were having an animated discussion of their own.

"Markus volunteered to be a medic right away, with the AfrikaKorps. He said the time to finish his proper training could wait, that our military were suffering out in the desert. So he and his best friend, that is Frau Koppel's son Gustav, signed up." Hilda paused. "At one time, it was thought Gustav and I might marry someday, but as things are now, who knows?"

"Is he a prisoner also?" Hogan prodded gently.

"No. He is still riding the sands. And so would my brother, most likely, except he stayed behind to tend the wounded. At a place called El-Alamein, some two years ago. His medical outpost was overrun and everyone was captured.

"For a time we received news from him. He was at a place run by the Britishers, a camp our soldiers named Bittersee. Then the letter stopped, just after Christmas. My father was able to ascertain that the prisoners were moved far south, to Cape Town in SüdAfrika. But he could learn no more." Hilda's breath caught sharply. "I have read of what happened during that country's own battles. I am frightened not only for my brother, but for my parents. Their spirits are not as they were before all this happened. And neither are mine." She sighed. "So I ask you again, Colonel, can you help me?"

"I don't know, Fraülein, and it's a dangerous risk for me. How do I know you're not planning to go straight to the Gestapo with any information I give you---assuming there is any to give, and that I decided to give it?" Hogan played hardball again, knowing the story might well be true. But delivered by so tempting a package?

"You don't," Hilda replied, waving at her mother. "Just as I do not know anything about you. I guess we will simply have to trust each other, or forget our conversation ever happened. If you will excuse me?"

A moment later, the group joined them and the ladies began preparing for their trip back into Hammelburg.

"So, what did you think?" Klink asked Hogan as they came back inside.

"I'd say we both need to sleep on it and then talk further," Hogan replied. "How about on Monday morning? Once the weekend is over." He knew Klink had interesting plans for Sunday and now he did, too.

"That is fine, I look forward to your input. Now I shall accompany the ladies back to town, perhaps a small nightcap with Greta as it is not too late yet…" Klink hurried off to escort his _**Liebling**_.

_______________________

Hogan found Kinch as soon as he got back to the barracks. "Be ready to call London when I say, once lights out is secure. Priority scrambler, hot stuff."

"What's up, Colonel?" LeBeau asked as he took Hogan's uniform coat.

"Seems the pretty lady might be a Lorelei. Or not. So I'm going to have a little chat with London and find out." Hogan looked around. "Van Schuyler?" he yelled. "Where are you?"

"Here, sir," the wiry South African gunner replied.

"My office, now. I need to talk with you."

_____________

TBC.

I am, of course, referring to Davenport's Magic Shop in Covent Garden, London, which has been in business for over a century.


	9. Chapter 9

Flattery Will Get You…Somewhere, Chapter 9

by Mistress V

_**A/N: I am going to get a little creative here with my O/C's. Jaconus (Jack) van Schuyler is cobbled together from various sources, but characters like him were not uncommon during the war, on both sides. They've been around as long as there have been wars. I've based his activities in fact, but it's my own version. He won't be at the Stalag long. Jaconus is an old Dutch name.**_

_**As for my other O/C, well, at the behest of a fellow author, I broadened the nationality pool a little. There were Dutch, South African and Canadian airmen serving in crews during the war. We'll hear more from him in the next chapter.**_

_**Early German POW's were sent to Canada (as they'd generally been captured by the British). I've read some excellent websites about what they did upon arrival---logging camps were a common destination. Life for these chaps was interesting---in addition to logging, they also kayaked in their free time (among many other activities) and had encounters with the odd grizzly bear! **_

_**I refer to the Rudyard Kipling story, "The Elephant's Child" briefly.**_

Van Schuyler followed Hogan into the office and closed the door. He then turned to and saluted.

"Flight Sergeant Jaconus van Schuyler reporting as ordered, SIR!" he stated.

"At ease. Have a seat, er, what do they call you?" Hogan replied.

"Jack, sir, or Jake." The man drew out a cigarette and lit one. "How may I assist you, Colonel? Was there something wrong with my act?"

"No, we enjoyed it very much. Especially the ladies in attendance," Hogan reassured him.

The sergeant had done a dramatic telling of the Kipling tale, "The Elephant's Child", enthralling everyone with his clipped rendition of the "Great, grey green greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever trees."

"That's good then." Van Schuyler gave Hogan a quizzical glance. "What, then, sir?"

Hogan got up and began pacing slowly back and forth, obviously weighing his words. "I realize you haven't been with us very long," he began.

"It's been two months since I was recaptured after leaving Stalag Two," the sergeant replied. "I only got out of the cooler this month, too."

"Yes, well, we're glad you did. But I'm in need of some information specific to your part of the world. The problem is, to get it might require my telling you some things that aren't very common knowledge around here." Hogan paused, assessing the airman. "Can I have your word that nothing we discuss will leave this room?"

"You do." A flicker passed across the man's blue eyes, but of what, Hogan couldn't precisely tell. "Sir."

"All right. I'll get right to the point. Are there any POW staging points down your way, say in Cape Town? For the Axis troops the British have captured, maybe?"

Van Schuyler's expression hardened almost imperceptibly, though his gaze remained neutral. "I'm afraid that information is classified, Colonel. And if I may ask, how did you obtain this?"

"No, you can't." Hogan straightened to his full height, angry and intrigued at the same time. "I asked you a question, airman. Please give me the courtesy of answering it, before I have to order you."

His guest exhaled a cloud of smoke, and then uttered one word.

It was enough. Hogan sat down and gave the counter command, his expression surprised. The two went through a complex series of recognition phrases, then, satisfied they were able to trust each other, got down to business.

"OK, how much can you tell me? And who are you? I had you pegged as a gunner, your record is good. South African in the RAF, that's not too improbable. But intelligence? Why didn't London alert me?"

"You weren't supposed to know, Colonel. I'm not supposed to even be here---bad luck I got caught breaking out, but you can't help that. You'd have learned about me eventually, when I'm transferred out again. But to inform you otherwise would have put the op in harm's way." Van Schuyler smiled now. "You're not the only game in town, you know. I'm in transit, on my back to my squadron. And my other job."

"But you were flying with them when you got shot down, weren't you?" Now Hogan was confused. He'd debriefed the new arrival after he'd been released from the mandatory thirty day sentence to the cooler upon his transfer.

"Not precisely, sir. Let's say I'm attached to the 322nd, just formed. You see, I may be from South Africa, but I was born in Rotterdam. I'm Dutch by nationality, thanks to my father. Though we emigrated before the first war to Stellenbosch, where I grew up."

"And you're not just a sergeant, are you?" Hogan had suspected this for some time but now he wanted to know.

"Afraid not. I hold the rank of _**Majoor **_in the_** Luchtvaartbrigade**_, and a similar one in the South African Air Force. I'm a pilot, yes. But that came from Mummy's side of the family. They're British and have plenty of flying aces about. My mother's maiden name is Smathers. That mean anything to you?" Van Schuyler lit another cigarette.

"Group Captain Smathers?" Hogan replied. "I know him. Great man, good pilot, too."

"He's Mummy's cousin. He taught me to fly when I was twelve. Growing up where I did, you learn to fly and to shoot almost as soon as you can walk. Believe it or not, sir, I'm a farmer. I studied agriculture at the University back home. But when the war started, I trained with the RAF and then went to the Netherlands to work with our depleted air corps. I got there just before things fell apart."

"They were wiped off the map, from what we heard. How did you get out alive? Did you fly with that squadron of planes that ended up in England?" Hogan knew the story of the ragtag survivors of the Dutch air corps, who now flew with the RAF.

"No, I got my men out; I remained behind. Then I made the right connections. And that's how I came to be doing KP duty, as we call it. But the rest, including why I was shot down, well, I can't really get into it except to say that my contribution is valuable to what's in the works. Can we agree on that?" Van Schuyler's eyes met Hogan's now, agent to agent.

"Agreed. Now for my part. Since you obviously know about our little op here, we have a problem. Klink's former secretary was vital to our day to day activities here, but she left to take care of a sick relative and ended up engaged to a German Naval Officer." Hogan shook his head. "A real shame. She was very good and very discrete."

"You afraid she'll talk?"

"No, she's happy to be in love, from what we hear. Trust me, it was purely a stocking romance and no one was the wiser." Hogan smiled in recollection. "But not without its merits. Now Klink needs some new office help. We want the right kind of help to come in, you understand."

"Am I to presume that corker in attendance this evening is part of your dilemma?" Van Schuyler drew a feminine shape in the air with his hands. "Very nice dilemma, indeed."

"It was until I found out her father's some big shot in the SS name of Oskar Bachman. That ring any bells for you?" Hogan asked.

"Not really, but that doesn't mean anything, sir. I'm working with another area of intelligence, you see, specializing in our Low Countries. But I bet London will know. Now what's the problem?"

"She told me her brother's a POW, captured at El-Alamein. She says the last that her father was able to learn was he'd been in Cape Town. There's been no word for six months and she's afraid the worst has happened." Hogan remembered the way the woman's voice caught. That couldn't be faked very well.

"She's telling the truth, sir. But whether it's her own truth or a well-rehearsed truth that's impossible to say. There *are* staging posts in Cape Town, mostly for transport of those chaps to Canada. London has more specific details. The trouble is, those bloody Jerries and their Japanese cousins are patrolling our waters with U-Boats and sending torpedoes all over the place. We've heard they plan to sink one of the transports and rescue their forces, as implausible as that seems. That's why the info is so lidded down. If her father knows, then we have to move on that, you see."

"They've been really brazen at disguises lately, I agree. Somehow I don't think the father wants the info for anything but personal use, but you're right. If he knows, chances are someone else does, too. But is it possible the son passed through and is already on his way to Canada? Could explain the silence."

Van Schuyler knit his brows, thinking. "Given that timeframe, probably. Everything really got crowded after the surrender in North Africa. Things are backed up beyond belief. Word is some of the newer POW's will be bound for America now, once they've been debriefed and moved."

"How bad was the surrender?" Hogan asked. "We don't hear much from that part of the world here, the local attention is to the near east of us."

"Bad, from Jerry's side of things. Great from anyone else's. Those Italians practically ran into Tunisia, dragging everyone else behind them." Van Schuyler gave a hard laugh. "Jerry could learn from them."

"Yeah, I kind of got that idea from a visitor we had." Hogan also laughed, remembering the cowardly Major Bonacelli. "But back to the task at hand. I'll need to be speaking to London for their input. What do I tell them in case your name comes up?"

Van Schuyler gave Hogan a coded recognition phrase to use. "I can guarantee that will get you right through to the very top for information. As for me, I suspect I won't be a guest here too much longer, anyway. "

"How do you get moved around like you do?" Hogan asked, curious. "Why don't the Nazis get suspicious? And how did you come to be assigned to my particular barracks, anyway?"

"We both have a friend in high places, Colonel. I believe you know them as Nimrod?" was all the agent said

__________________

Kinch got through to London soon after lights out. Hogan used the phrase he'd been given and asked for a complete dossier on Bachman and his family, giving precise details of what he knew. He fully expected not to hear back from base for at least a half day. To his amazement, he'd only just dropped off to sleep when he was summoned to Kinch's station for a reply.

"Hello, old chap," Air Marshall Woodhouse said pleasantly. "I've got Air Commodore Jim Hubble here, on secondment to us from the RCAF. How may we be of assistance?"

TBC!


	10. Chapter 10

Flattery Will Get You…Somewhere, Chapter 10

by Mistress V

_**A/N: I have set this story in August, 1943. That coincides with many of the events that have been mentioned in passing. With the massive failure at Stalingrad (and the call for acceptance of total war by the German people from Goebbels), there would likely have been little publicity about the subsequent surrender in North Africa. The last days of Die Weiße Rose movement also happened that spring and summer, with trials and executions.**_

_**Hilda's brother--- From what I read about the mail service for POW's (on both sides of the Atlantic, letters took up to seven months (sometimes more) to reach the recipient, and they were subject to censure, interception and the occasional loss altogether (if the transportation was lost to an attack, say).**_

_**Hitler was in fact the victim of poison gas during 1918 and due to that, it is said that he would not condone the use of gases on the battlefield in WW2. So it's not improbable he would show favor to a fellow gas survivor. And as for Herr Bachman, it's all from my own head (though I am sure such a posting was possible).**_

Hogan sat down and accepted the coffee cup Kinch held out. It was going to be a long night, he thought.

"I got a surprise package," he began, referring to the special air services agent currently living in his barracks. "Thanks, I think."

"Sorry about that," Woodhouse replied. "I'm sure you read the explanation, though. Did it arrive in one piece?"

"All intact. And thanks again. But that's not why I called. Our beloved Kommandant is interviewing for a new secretary and we had a great candidate until I found out her father is some muckety-muck in the SS. His rank is a mouthful, obviously higher than Hochstetter and Klink. Who is he?"

"Ahh, you mean old Iron Lungs Bachman," came the reply. "And I'll say right off his rank is purely titular."

Hogan wasn't so sure. "How can that be? The Nazis don't go around bestowing honorary officerships, do they? He must have some pretty high party credentials to have gotten where he is. And that would make it easy to be fed information by someone close to him, wouldn't it?"

"For someone else, perhaps. This chap got to Berlin in a rather odd way. He's a decorated low ranking officer from the first war. The company got gassed, mustard it was, and he managed to lead about twenty of them to safety---on a broken leg, no less. They gave him every medal in the book, but it took years for him to recover properly. Walks with a cane and has problems breathing to this day. The really fascinating connection there was that he apparently ended up in the same field hospital with the future Führer for a short while."

"Yeah, I remember Hitler was gassed. Temporarily blinded, right?" Hogan was glad he'd studied his military history so well.

"Correct. Anyway, our man Bachman eventually got better, left the hospital, the whole usual scenario. He went to work at the University of Würzburg as a professor in economics and languages. Met his wife there, she was working at the hospital. They got married, started a family, you know the drill. Bachman wrote many journal articles on the economic crisis and apparently one of them caught the eye of his former ward mate. Hitler made the connection and invited him to join an economic think tank of sorts that's being run under the general umbrella of the WVHA that you mentioned. Bachman works with currency matters. Speculation, futures. We think Hitler's tapped the group to develop the Reich's new monetary system once the war ends---ends with them as the victor, of course. But we'll see to it that Herr Bachman will be out of that particular job, won't we, chaps?" Laughter now rumbled across the transmission.

"How close is this man to Hitler?" Hogan was suddenly afraid of the conversation he'd had with Hilda, and the gift that was presented.

"No more than anyone at that level. Old Adolf keeps his inner circle drawn tightly, and Bachman isn't part of that. Though other officers might not know it, hence the reaction there was from your friends at Stalag 13." Woodhouse paused to speak to someone in the office with him. "He took the post rather reluctantly. He's an academic at heart, but obviously knows the side his bread's been buttered on."

"Yeah, the way they were fawning over Frau Maria was like something out of a Rita Hayworth film premiere." Hogan now laughed, but became serious again. "By the way, what about the mother? Is she a legitimate maternity nurse? Not part of that wild Nazi baby breeding movement we heard about?"

There were murmurs of surprise across the airwaves. Hogan distinctly heard the whispered word, "Lebensborn" mentioned several times. Then another voice came on, English with an Alsatian lilt to it.

"Special Agent Smith here, Colonel. No, there's no connection to that that we've ascertained. But you've heard about the program? How? And from whom?"

Hogan swiftly recounted the story he'd been told from a recently passing underground agent who'd come down from Norway. He sensed notes were being assiduously taken back at base.

"So," Hogan continued, anxious to get to the heart of the matter. "What about the daughter? Is she some kind of plant? I mean, why would she *want* to work here, of all places? There are more prestigious Kommandants she could serve, right? I get the feeling she knows something."

"Not so much knows something about you…more about something else. Are you familiar with white roses?" Woodhouse now asked.

"The kind that grows in my mother's garden, or another kind?" Hogan replied, knowing precisely what the question meant.

"The other kind. From that mess at Munich earlier this spring," the Air Marshall continued. "Hilda and her brother weren't involved, but one of her schoolmates went to the university and was friendly with one of the young men at the heart of the organization, though only for a short time. A summer romance that ended, from what we can tell. "

"What happened to the girl?" Hogan replied. He'd seen a smuggled copy of the group's last leaflet, which had been dropped over Germany a few months earlier. "Is she in prison?" Or worse, he wondered, shivering as he recalled the brutal end suffered by movement's leaders.

"No, though they interrogated her and all of her friends, going back to kindergarten." Smith again. "Your Hilda was questioned, but the fact her brother was serving with Rommel, her father's position and her former position, at a propaganda ministry publishing house, all were in her favor. So far as we know, she's not under the microscope any longer."

Hogan exhaled.

"The whole incident gave Jerry a black eye, no matter what the propaganda ministry may say," Woodhouse added. "And they're still hunting down possible co-conspirators. This Hilda probably wants to look as undefiled as possible. What better way to hide than in plain sight? As a dutiful assistant to a POW camp Kommandant, she takes the place of someone who can then be used at the front. It will make things look good for her family, too."

Poor Schmidt, Hogan thought. He liked the young man in a sort of way, the same as he did Schultz. "But I'll ask you again, why our stalag?"

"Think about it," Woodhouse said. "Klink has a stellar record, no escapes. He may be a bumbler, but those in charge obviously feel he's doing something right. Apart from visits by Hochstetter and Burkholter, it's relatively peaceful. Now put yourself in Hilda'a place. Would you want to be somewhere where the Gestapo was swarming about all the time, capturing escaped prisoners, interrogations, endless reports to be filed? In all that activity, the wrong pair of eyes might focus on you instead, with all kinds of consequences."

"I see," Hogan mused. "So you're saying it's safer for her to be here? I can believe that. But Helga knew about our operation. What do we do about this one? Do we tell her, or let her find out on her own and then hope she stays quiet?"

"I'm afraid that's going to be up to you," Woodhouse stated. "You're there, you can best assess the situation first hand."

"If it came to a crisis, your unit could be evacuated and ops deactivated," Smith interjected. "No harm, no foul."

"What about the rest of the prisoners here? This is a huge camp, you know. They'd suffer, all right." Hogan knew he had a dilemma. "But tell me about the brother. Maybe that'll help me decide how to proceed."

"Hello, Hoganl. Hubble here." A Canadian accent now joined the conversation. "We've managed to track down Markus Bachman and it's just as his sister said. He stayed longer than normal at Bitter Lake, apparently to help with the medical needs there, then was sent to the staging point you learned of. Our South African contact confirmed that."

"Where is he now? Hilda says there's been no word for months."

"He arrived at our main induction point this past spring," Hubble continued, shuffling some papers. "I was just checking. This chap's a good one for volunteering, even though he's not a fully qualified doctor yet. Turns out his ship had some health issues, what with crossing from summer into the dead of winter as it did. He asked to remain up in Nova Scotia until everyone was taken care of, then was sent out to Ontario in July. He's at a work camp. Logging, primarily, though he's been busy seeing to the local populace as it's so rural. He must take after the mother---I see he's helped deliver three babies already."

"Don't they write letters? Is your censor as bad as the German ones? I know people I've spoken with in the underground have heard news about their own POW's, news from letters. Why not this one? Is he a spy? Being a doctor would give him the prefect cover." Hogan was still suspicious of the whole stewpot, though less so than when the call first began.

Hubble sighed. "No, but the news gets diverted at times. We lost a whole caboodle of post, period, when a ship got torpedoed . It's possible this man's letters may have been part of the consignment. I've been on to HQ back home, to see what the situation is. Another batch of mail was handed over to the intermediary agency a few weeks back. Depending on the Jerry censors, I'd say the young woman may hear some news soon. Of course she won't really know where he is, that's part of the rules. But she'll know he's safe and sound, I'm certain."

"The information you gave us about the Jerries having knowledge of the transport routes was exceptionally helpful," Woodhouse added. "We're working to make some changes. Don't want them interfering with the flow of traffic, as it were. There'll be some changes, but of course I'm not at liberty to say precisely what."

"So is the information you've just given me," Hogan replied. "I'll see what Klink thinks of the young woman, he asked me to assess her. Unless you find out something that's a possible threat, I think I'll go ahead with a positive vote. And for now, we'll watch our step. But at the first sign of trouble, we may need to act."

"That sounds workable. Are we in agreement, chaps?" Woodhouse asked. A murmur of agreement soon followed. "Well, we'll sign off for now, then, but stay in touch. And don't be too surprised if that surprise package of yours gets sent on to another destination rather soon."

"Affirmative. Over and out." Hogan nodded at Kinch, who ended the transmission.

The radioman knew better than to ask for details. One look at his commanding officer was enough to tell him there was something afoot. But there'd been plenty of other crises and he had faith in the man.

Hogan slowly climbed the ladder back to the main barracks and shuffled off to bed. Good thing it was Sunday, he thought tiredly. Klink would be out, LeBeau promised a nice, leisurely lunch, and he had plenty of thinking to do, besides.

It really *was* turning out to be a fascinating war.

TBC.


	11. Chapter 11

Flattery Will Get You…Somewhere, Chapter 11

by Mistress V

_**Thanks to everyone for your kind reviews. I honestly had not planned for this story to grow legs like a centipede. That's what I get for swimming laps before I write---time to think up strange new plot twists.**_

_**For those who wondered, Frau Koppel's husband was killed in action during the early stages of the battle for Stalingrad. And no, she's not a spy, either. Klink deserves a break, right? Hogan usually steals his girl.**_

_**There's a surprise challenge response buried in here, too. Have fun finding it!**_

Hogan came to Klink's office right after roll call. He'd spent the prior day weighing options in his mind about Hilda. After discussing most, but not *all*, of what he'd learned with his men, they decided as a group to say yes to her being hired. Provided Klink said yes, too. And from there, they'd wing it.

"Come in, Hogan, please. Have a cup of coffee." Klink was still in high spirits from the weekend by the sound of it.

"Thank you, sir. Don't mind if I do." Hogan poured out two cups. "How was your Sunday, if I may ask?"

"Delightful, simply delightful. I escorted Greta to _**Kirche **_and then we took a ride in the countryside. Such glorious weather we are having! We had a fine luncheon at a small _**Gashtof**_ I know of before seeing a film. And then we joined Frau Bachman and Hilda for evening supper. Fraülein Hilda is quite keen on the idea of working here for me, by the way." Klink paused and looked at Hogan almost pleadingly. "Did you find out anything useful? What do you think I should do?"

Oh boy, did I ever, Hogan thought. But fair was fair. He cleared his throat. "I did, sir. She seems to have been doing secretarial work for some time. I understand she learned this in Berlin, which likely means her skills are exceptional, it being the capital city and all."

"_**Ja**_,_** ja**_," Klink nodded. "My thoughts precisely."

"Now, about her father." Hogan looked at Klink discretely over his coffee cup.

"What about her father?"

"From the reaction I saw when his name was mentioned, he seems to be quite highly regarded. So that means that although Fraülein Hilda might be a pretty young woman, she's _**verboten**_. Unless you want to risk finding out Herr Bachman's reaction to a little office romance, right? Plus, her mother is best friends with the lady you are presently keeping company with. That's not an honorable thing to consider, if you were thinking about it." It leaves her free for me, Hogan finished to himself smugly. "Besides, you never know just who Daddy might be chatting to in Berlin."

"I would not *think* of such a thing, Colonel Hogan." Obviously, Klink knew what those consequences might be, but not the possibility of their happening. "You are right, however, I shall issue strict instructions to all the staff on the matter. As for your men…"

"I'll keep the boys in line, but you can't blame them for looking, or the occasional whistle. After all, she is nice looking."

"That she most certainly is. Now how do I go about hiring her the correct way? Helga was here when I took command of the stalag." Klink began making notes on a pad.

"To keep it strictly business, call over to Würzburg and try to speak to some of her old superiors. There must be some around," Hogan offered. "And then do the proper administrative paperwork and have Schmidt send it on to Berlin. These processes can take time, so you'd better get on it right away."

"I shall have him start this very morning." Klink got up and looked out the window, obviously pleased with himself. "I do believe it will be a fine, what is that term I hear you use, Hogan?"

"Indian Summer, sir," Hogan replied.

_________________

Hilda was slated to begin work the first week of September. Klink also managed to have Schmidt promoted to provisions and supply procurement , with a little bookkeeping added onfor good measure. Everyone looked forward to the new secretary's arrival, none more so than the men of barracks two.

Unfortunately for Van Schuyler, he would miss the arrival. Orders materialized for his impending transfer to a POW camp nearer to Berlin, ostensibly so he could be questioned by the Gestapo more often. Both he and Hogan knew that was just a formality. While they shared the news with the team that the gunner would be leaving not only Stalag 13 but Germany altogether, they left out what his other job happened to be. LeBeau and Newkirk made up documents and clothes for the man's escape and had the underground pick them up in advance. The night before he was due to leave, Van Schuyler and Hogan had a final meeting.

"The war's not done yet, sir, but we've come over the hump. Stalingrad, then North Africa, those were two huge blows to Jerry. Round about this time next year, don't be too surprised if things have changed in a big way." It was clear the plans for D-Day were already in the works and Van Schuyler was in on the ground floor. He gave a last salute to Hogan. "Good luck sir. See you when this is all over, maybe down my way. Come have a glass of our wine with my wife and me at our farm, eh?"

"You've got a deal." Hogan returned the salute with a smile and then shook the man's hand. "Any last bits of advice for me?"

The agent paused, as if deciding what to say. He lit a cigarette to cover his indecision. Then he made up his mind. "Actually, sir, there is."

"And what's that?"

"If there's ever another show being planned, please, take my word for it. It would be much, much better if you did not sing." It was obvious the words were sticking in the man's throat, along with his cigarette smoke.

Hogan stared at the bearer of this news. "What do you mean? I've been singing since I was old enough to talk. No one's ever said anything."

"And probably very badly, too, sir. Trust me, it's not something you want bandied about. I mean, what if it got to Berlin Betty? You'd end up the laughing stock of the Reich in record time. They're looking for stuff like this to make the Allies look bad. I'm sure you have many talents, but singing just isn't one of them."

"I'm that bad?" Hogan persisted, his ego deflating as he spoke.

"Afraid so." His visitor was not mincing words.

"How…bad?"

"As terrible sounding as the kolokolo bird, sir." Van Schuyler had given each of the characters in his performance its own unique voice. And the mournful cry of the kolokolo bird had been most mournful indeed.

"Well." Hogan took a deep breath and threw his shoulders back. "Thanks for telling me, and don't worry, I'll heed your warning. It's all beginning to make sense to me now. But I've known these guys for years. Why the devil wouldn't they tell me?"

"If you were in their place, sir…would you?"

_______________________

Fraülein Hilda reported for work on a sunny September Monday morning. She arrived by bicycle, her sensible hairstyle and attire a far cry from the splendor of just a few days before. But she still looked beautiful. The entire camp turned out to watch her cycle by.

Hogan and LeBeau headed over to the office a bit later, for an official welcome from the men. LeBeau held a carefully arranged floral bouquet, pilfered from Klink's garden.

"How many times do I have to tell you to sharpen up that image?" Hogan complained to his companion. He stuck a finger in the obvious hole the man's sweater had. "How long have you had this thing? Surely you can grab a needle and thread and stitch that up. "

LeBeau stopped and shook his head. "Non," he said stoutly. "This I cannot do. It reminds me of my true amor in Marseilles, the lovely Violette. A remembrance of the night of passion we spent before I reported for duty after my last furlough. To mend this would be to erase her memory from my very heart, Colonel. Please try to understand."

"You know as well as I do you tore that sweater climbing down the rose trellis after her husband walked through the front door," Hogan reminded him. "Some remembrance."

"It is enough." LeBeau tossed the end of his scarf over the offending gap and they continued on to greet Klink's secretary.

___________________

The first week passed uneventfully, although there was more than the usual number of visitors for Klink. Each arrived with gifts of welcome for the new assistant. Operations went on as they always had, but the air was filled with anticipation about what Hilda might do or might not do. But, infuriatingly, she did nothing. It was as though the entire conversation with Hogan had never happened.

Then one day, it all changed. Hogan came over to Klink's office with the proofs of the latest edition of the camp newspaper, complete with photos from the recent show. He learned from Hilda that the Kommandant was on a call to Berlin so to pass the time, they looked over the galleys.

"I have heard from my brother, Colonel Hogan," Hilda said quietly. "He is safe and well. Thank you."

"I didn't have anything to do with it, but I'm glad to hear he's all right. Do you know where he is?" Hogan's response was indifferent on purpose.

"_**Nein**_, not precisely. How can I thank you, Colonel? It was almost like a miracle. My parents are so relieved. For that I am the most grateful." Hilda smiled broadly, her lips bright with Cherry on the Top.

"Like I said, I really didn't do anything. Let's call it a coincidence. But since you asked, I'll tell you." Hogan dropped his voice as well. "It's in both of our interests that Klink remain in charge here. Things are quiet and we like them that way. I'm sure you do, too. The problem is, the man in there can get a little overwhelmed and then his superiors start making threats about removing him. That would be…well, it wouldn't be wise. So can you see that he…looks good?"

"_**Ja**_, of course." Hilda was all business in her reply. "He is not the first endearingly inept superior I have had. That is simply done."

"Good." Hogan wandered over to the bookshelf and picked up the ancient globe there. He brought it back to Hilda's desk and began twirling it slowly with his hands as he continued to speak. "You know, Fraülein, I think you're a very smart woman. And word does sometimes travel far and wide about favors done, even in POW camps. Even as far away as…"

The globe stopped abruptly. Hogan's finger rested in the middle of Canada.

Hilda let out a gasp as her eyes met Hogan's. She nodded. "I think I understand, Colonel. But there is one other thing."

"And what might that be?"

"Gustav…we finally have word that he is also a POW. I gather he will be following my brother's journey to your part of the world?"

"He might be," Hogan began, but he was interrupted when the door to Klink's inner offices opened and he stepped out.

"Hello, Hogan. Good, you brought the papers as I asked." He glanced at the pair for a moment. "Now what is happening here? A small geography lesson, perhaps?"

"I was just showing Hilda where the cowboys live," Hogan replied glibly.

_______________

"Colonel Hogan? Message from London," Baker said, handing him a slip of paper.

Hogan scanned the item, noting the details of an upcoming drop. But his eyes were drawn to the postscript.

"P.S. A message from the Elephant's Child for Papa Bear. He's back from the Limpopo River with his new nose ."

A smile spread across Hogan's features. In the story, when the main character came back from the river with his new, improved trunk, he set about spanking all the relatives that had spanked him mercilessly in the past. That could only mean one thing.

Van Schuyler was back in Holland, making Jerry pay.

________________________

A few months later, away far north in Canada….

"And so, Mama, please keep your spirits up. I am well and keeping busy. When I am home once again, I shall tell you many wonderful stories of my time here. Your loving son, Gustav."

"Come on, my friend. Dinner is ready to be served and we don't want to miss out on anything." Markus Bachman tugged at his pal's jacket sleeve. "Even if it does mean I'll likely be on indigestion duty later."

"Do you think we will also celebrate the American version of this harvest fest next month? I am rather fond of the _**Kürbis**_ pie that we have been served recently. It is also on the menu for the American's Thanksgiving." Gustav rubbed his stomach in anticipation of the meal that was waiting.

"Who's to say? It would be wiser to eat twice as much on this night, just to be safe." Markus pushed the doors open to the dining hall where delicious aromas soon overcame the pair.

"I still do not know how I ended up at your camp, Markus. Most of my company was being sent to some place called Texas. That is where these buckaroos are to be found, no? What are our soldiers doing there? Striking cows?" Gustav asked, perplexed.

"You mean punching cattle, Dummkopf," Markus replied, as only a best friend could. "And let us not speculate on the intricacies of fate. We are here together. That is all that matters."

_______________

THE END

I presume some kind of Thanksgiving was held in Canada during the war, even unofficially. And from what I have read, POW's on this side of the Atlantic ate quite a bit better than their counterparts elsewhere. My father certainly confirmed that, too---the chow at Ft. Lewis may have been boring, but it was good and plentiful. For everyone.

We all know Hilda worked out, but it was sure fun to write how she might have gotten there!

Van Schuyler (in my universe) went back to being an operative and survived operation Market Garden. He eventually returned home to South Africa and grew grapes for the fine wines that region produces.

I referred again to "The Elephant's Child" by Kipling.


End file.
